Thursday, 6 August 2009


Sometimes I open my mouth, and then think about what I am saying, and regret what I am saying before I have actually finished what I am saying.


Basically I have yet to evolve to such a state that I engage my grey matter before I open my mouth, apart from perhaps when I order food. My suspicion is that evolution to such an advanced level is several generations away, at best.

Recently I have said to my son, on more than one occasion;

“Want to bet?”

Now firstly, I have a concern about encouraging him to gamble, especially at such tender years.

Bartering, cajoling and bribing are all good tools for getting good behaviour, and getting the message across. But I think making wagers with a four-year-old is perhaps, taking things a little too far, especially when I lose.

On our recent journey up to my folks’ caravan, we were in our usual discussion mode, at least Max was. We also had Granddad with us, who was never going to get any peace on the journey more than happy to contribute.

‘We’ got onto the subject of prospective playmates at the caravan site. There are around 40 caravans, many of which are owned by families with children. This is great as it generally means that there are kids aplenty for my boy to play with.

During our last stay at Whitsun, Junior had befriended more kids, one of which he had only a day or so with, but had taken a real shine to. Mind, not shiny enough to remember his name, or so I thought.

Going from Max’s description, I thought I had it nailed, and I was a smidge surprised that he had forgotten. However my boy disagreed, so I suggested he put his money where his mouth is.

His other grandparents had sent some money with me for him to spend, and I suggested that if I was wrong I would double this amount, and if I was right I could keep all his money.

As monetary values do not really register with Max at the moment, I broke it down to say he would have more if he won, but none if he lost.

“None isn’t a lot Daddy,” he said.

And therefore decided not to take me up on my offer.

It was forgotten.

For about an hour.

Then, during a discussion on either crabbing, Indiana Jones, Star Wars, bugs or the boy’s friends from nursery, Max had a eureka moment.

“Edward,” he said, as if suffering from a version of tourettes that meant he shouted out names randomly.

I sunk, and may have sworn under my breath, he had remembered, and I had got the name incorrect.

Then you know what came next?

“You know that bet Daddy?”

Just a good job he had no idea what double equated to.